Breaking & Entering
by Tithe and Tethered
Summary: pent up and exhausted. thieving and gorgeous. lemons and spilled wine. bringing down the walls.
1. Chapter 1

I threw my bag down onto the table, my keys dropping into the bowl that held spare change and forgotten keepsakes. Kicking off my shoes, I watched them land in the pile of jumbled footwear under the table. The air around me was still and slightly sticky, a product of the closed windows and the humidity that was threatening my safe haven from the gaps in the window framework. My hair hung limp and dejected against my neck, the curls I had meticulously made this morning wilting in the summer haze that had fallen across the city.

I went to the window, pushing up with insane force to let the fresher air in. The heat had everything swelling, the moisture soaking into every building and testing the patience of the inhabitants. Doors wouldn't open, or windows wouldn't shut, and I'd frequently hear the exclamations of disgust from the upper and lower apartments. Choice words would fly from their mouths, and every once in a while a child would exclaim and call them out on their mishap, or even try to mimic them.

My neighborhood was one of relative peace and quiet. Average cars parked on the street, most of the houses on either side were brownstones with three floors or more. The larger ones, converted from old warehouses or offices, had industrial elevators with the grate doors and the hand-held lever that guided it between floors. I was a lucky recipient of such a contraption. It was cramped, dark, and stank of nesting animals. There was one dim bulb, and the lever would get stuck more often than not, sending the rider into a panic. Cursing and kicking would ensue, and when it decided to cooperate, the heavy box would lurch down, free falling some 10 feet or more, sending the rider into a further state of terror. More than once I fell to the cool and stable ground outside of the metal death box and kissed it, more dramatic than necessary but still satisfying and calming.

Even this morning, the elevator malfunctioned, dropping two floors and sending me hurling into the lobby as quickly as I could before it continued down to the basement. Luckily, I hadn't dropped my coffee mug in my rush out, and made it to the subway with a minute to spare.

I sat down, tucking my paper between my knees as I rummaged through my bag for my iPod. Eclectic and off-kilter, it was my distraction from the mundane. It acted as a barrier for me, effectively cutting off my connection to the outside chaos. It soothed and prepared me for the hectic days I spent running around the news center, the fly-away looking journalist with too sensible clothes and too quiet voice. I was in charge, positionally, but on a daily basis I was challenged and then ignored. The bigwigs on the top floor loved my ideas each month, but they never came through, my pieces being pushed aside in favor of publicity grabbers that were gobbled up by the media-frenzied masses. Instead, my thought-provoking and literarily stimulating articles appeared in the back of the magazine. I had a small following, and a few people sent letters or emails to me to comment on my work or debate my results. I felt lucky to even be noticed, so I didn't complain, but secretly I wanted more.

People always say you have to look the part, and that presentation was key. I was dowdy looking. My hair was long and brown, uninspiring in its cut and color. It was a natural color. I'd never processed it, though the sun would add some reds and maples, if I ever went outside. My eyes were pretty enough, a shining greenish-blue, but my bangs tended to cover them up, and I liked it that way. I wasn't tall. Maybe 5 foot 7 or so. Practically no boobs and very little hips, there was nothing about me that pulled in any attention. My legs were long, disproportionate to my torso, but I had always heard that it was a good thing. My ass was fairly flat, but I never dressed to accentuate any of me few good traits. My clothes were loose and comfortable, though still professional looking. Dress slacks and button up shirts made up the majority of my wardrobe, with sweats and t shirts for my casual clothes, which only saw the inside of my loft. Every once in a while, I wore my favorite blue top, the dipping neckline and fitted sleeves the only fancy thing I owned.

The fancy shirt got pulled out once a month, always on a Friday. I would receive catcalls on the subways platform, and the boys from editing would come down and pretend to proofread my grammatically flawless article just to try and see what goods I had to offer. I would blush and hide my face, and they would laugh and make rude comments as they walked away.

Today was no different, and I was happy to reach my apartment as the sun was setting over the skyline. The beautiful colors lit up the apartment and shined down on the hardwood floors, turning the room into a warm rainbow of light.

Finally getting the window halfway open, I went to the fridge and grabbed the pot of last night's risotto. I turned on the gas stove and placed the pot on the burner, preferring the non-radiation method of reheating my leftovers. I took a mason glass and the bottle of red wine down from the shelf and poured a glass, setting a place for myself at the island that served as a dinner table. It's not as though I didn't have the space to put a table, but I lacked the friends and sociable attitude necessary to have people over. Eating by myself was comfort I both relished and detested. Even when I went out, I was a loner, sitting on the far stool at the bar, nursing my drink and ignoring the other patrons. I envied the pretty girls and how well they were able to flirt and communicate with the people around them. I had all the words I needed in my head, but when it came time to speak them, my mouth refused to work, drying out and leaving me spluttering and running away in embarrassment.

I look up in time from my painful recollections and notice that I need to stir the risotto, since it's in danger of sticking hopelessly to the pan. I do, and plate it a moment later. I turn to the island and remember that in my haste I forgot to turn off the stove. I set the plate down roughly and spin quickly to turn the gas off. Turning back to my food, I realize my plate hit my glass of wine, knocking it over and dumping the contents across the top of the island. The wine is now dripping down from the edge of the counter, staining the pale wood. I bent down, tugging the dishrag from the handle of the oven with me, and began to mop up the mess.

I stood back up and threw the towel into the hamper under sink. Sighing, I put the wine back on the shelf. If I knocked over the first glass, I figured it was a sign that I wasn't supposed to have one.

This evening was going down hill, and fast, and I was damned if I would let it. I grabbed the risotto and plopped down onto my futon couch. Snagging the remote, I turned on the small TV in the corner and flipped on the news. The top stories floated across the large living room, the stocks ran across the bottom of the screen, and my eyelids drooped in resignment to the long day. My plate lay flat across my stomach, my grip on the remote was slack. I hadn't even taken a bite of my reheated meal, but somehow that didn't bother me. Mentally, I was too tired to readjust, or even place the dish on the coffee table. I didn't care that the food might get on the couch, the floor, or even me. I didn't mind that the plate might lose its perch and plummet to the ground. I couldn't be bothered that it might shatter into tiny pieces. I wasn't even concerned with the possibility that I might spend tomorrow morning picking shards of ceramic dinnerware out of my feet.

My biggest concern was falling asleep quickly, and staying that way until the overwhelming exhaustion left my bones. And I fell asleep. And I slept. Until my body was jarred awake by something much louder and unsettling than the paper hitting my apartment door.


	2. Chapter 2

I woke with a start, the plate falling from my lap, covering me, the couch, and the floor in the process. It also shattered into tiny pieces, skittering across the hard wood.

I whipped my head around to the noise that had woken me up, and my eyes came to rest on the most remarkable sight.

A man was standing in my living room. This had never happened before. Even Charlie hadn't been here. I had moved all of my belongings in by myself. My apartment was essentially a virgin up until this point. At least, I had thought of it that way, as I had never had a man in here, let alone in me. I thought of it that way so we could have something in common.

I tried to pinpoint what had made the noise, and and my gaze fell to the box on the floor. It was wooden, with an intricate design on the lid. Inside, it held my meager if tasteful collection of jewelry. It had been on my dresser this morning. I couldn't fathom how it had gotten onto my living room floor, its contents spilling across the wood. My eyes snapped up to fix on the man. He had his hood up and his eyes wide. His arms, covered in the dark sleeves of his hoodie, were wrapped around my small TV.

Realization flickered across my face as horror and panic flashed across his. He was robbing me. He had broken and entered into my virgin apartment and tried to rob me while I slept on the couch. He had dropped the jewelry box when he went to nab the television. I couldn't believe it.

It wasn't as if it was difficult to enter my brownstone. You didn't need a key for the main door. There was a staircase that went all the way up to the roof. The elevator needed no key either. I had thought the lock on my door would have kept out any intruders, but I guess they had special ways of getting around the pins and bolts that sat in the doorknob.

I was surprised that there were robberies in this neighborhood, but then again, why would someone rob a neighborhood that had little to offer? Of course they would hit the middle class. That way the things stolen could be sold inconspicuously. I made a note to myself to write an article on it later in the month, after I had recovered from all of this.

A thought struck me then. Would I recover from this? Would he leave me alive, now that I had seen his face? I mean, I had a clear view of his face, and there was no way I could have forgotten it.

He was the most beautiful person I'd ever seen. His hair, which peaked out from under the hood, was dark in the early morning, but I could tell by the streetlights shining in through the windows that it was reddish, wavy. Longer on the top than the sides, though not by much. He had five o'clock shadow and a slightly crooked nose, the bridge raised and proud. It looked like it had been broken some time ago, and healed without being reset, giving him a devil-may-care look. His full lips were a soft pink, drastically effeminate against his chiseled jaw and stubble. He was tall, at least six foot four, and his eyes, which nearly glowed in the semi-darkness, made my heart stand still. They were expressive and vibrantly green, though filled with worry. His brows, which were full and yet perfectly shaped, were knit together in frustration and deep thought. I hoped that I made it past this night, if only to have the opportunity to use this man as a stimulator for my masturbation sessions.

I made it a mission to live, and in making this resolution, I jumped from the couch, my feet catching the broken plate on the floor. I refused to acknowledge the pain though, and darted to the kitchen. I knew that I was safe here, and the heaviness of the objects surrounding me gave me hope that I could fight him off. He was right behind me, though, and in my haste, my hand wrapped around the closest thing to me. I pulled my arm back around, bringing with it as much force as I could. The heavy cookbook in my grasp collided with the side of his head, and he crumpled forward, his eyes rolling up into his head as the lids closed over them. I caught the TV as he fell, staggering under the weight of it.

I managed to lift it onto the island, pushing it as far into the middle as possible to avoid it falling. I left the beautiful stranger on the small kitchen carpet as I went in search of the broom. My arms were shaking, and the collision left me stunned and scared. I wasn't sure how I was still functioning, but I tried to take it in stride and without question.

Finding it tucked somewhat behind the refrigerator, along with the dustpan, I took both of them into the living room. I set the dustpan down on the floor, and with the broom I began the clean up. The shards were spread across the entirety of the room, under the couch, table. Luckily the ten floor-to-ceiling bookshelves had no openings at the bottom that could have let in the far flying pieces of my plate. Finally gathering all of the shards, I bent down and swept them into the dustpan, making sure that I got every one of the tiny fragments.

Walking back into the kitchen to empty the contents of the dustpan, I looked down at the unconscious man on my floor. Even out cold, he was still beautiful.

I put back the dustpan and broom and turned to survey him again. I felt a pang of regret for how I'd knocked him out with Julia Child's cookbook. I knew when he woke up that I'd have some serious explaining to do. That thought sent a chill through me. I had no idea what I was going to say to him.

It was at this point that I began to feel the building discomfort in my feet, and I lightly padded into the bathroom, flicking on the light and grabbing the tweezers. Taking a seat on the rim of the claw-footed tub, I lifted my right foot and looked down to the bloody mess of broken skin bits of ceramic. I winced as I began to pluck out the slivers, letting them fall into the tub. Blood began to trickle out of the unblocked cuts, and I began to breathe through my nose, the metallic smell making me dizzy. I leaned over and opened the cupboard under the sink, took out the hydrogen peroxide, and dumped a fair amount of its contents over my foot. It stung! The foaming began, and I winced as it disinfected the area. Turning on the water, I let it warm up until it felt like tepid tea. Maybe it would sooth the ache. One toe at a time, I lowered it under the stream of water, sighing in contentment. The water slowly turned pink as I relaxed my foot, the skin around the cuts pulling back and allowing the sensitive area to be cleansed. I lightly ran my fingers over the abused area, catching the last fragments of ceramic that clung to the cuts. Putting my now treated foot away from the water, I swung my other foot into the tub and began the process again, wincing and cussing.

An hour later, I finally dried my feet with a bath towel and hobbled back to the kitchen. I had wrapped my cuts, and covered my feet with soft and supportive socks. I checked on the stranger, who was still passed out on the floor. Concern knitted my brow. I hadn't thought I had that much strength behind the swing. I knew he couldn't stay on the floor, and I was worried about what would happen when he woke up.

Grabbing his ankles, I tugged him across the kitchen and through the living room. He was heavy, and I struggled, my back aching and my arms straining. I maneuvered us through my bedroom door, and positioned him against the bedpost, propping him up and placing his hands behind his back.

Looking down, I had to gasp. He was too handsome to bear, his face illuminated and shadowed by the moonlight and streetlamp glow coming in through my window.

I turned around and rummaged through the top drawer of the dresser, searching with something to bind his hands with. I couldn't have him get away. I fished out a thin silk scarf, a small gift from my mother that I was too conservative to wear. The bright colors clashed with my dark hued wardrobe. It felt fitting to use this scarf with the stranger. Never in my wildest dreams would I imagine tying up a burglar, let alone doing so with my bright silk neck scarf. I figured that if I was going to step out of my comfort box, I might as well do it completely.

I turned to face the man, crouching down on the balls of my tender feet. I managed to keep my balance as I leaned forward and crossed his hands behind his back and around the bottom of the bedpost. The scarf went above his wrists, further up his arms. The material was soft yet strong, and held tightly when I made the knot.

I took a tentative shuffle back, trying my best to be quiet. His head had fallen forward, gravity taking hold. Shiny copper hair had come out of place from under his hood, and I pushed back the material, tucking his disheveled locks back into place. It was so soft and thick, reminding me of the texture of the scarf I had held moments before. I mentally slapped myself for thinking those thoughts. i ha never touched a man that way before. Charlie wasn't one for affection, and he never had a hair that misbehaved. To be fair, what hair he did have was short and well maintained, as per police protocol. It would be very unbecoming for the Chief to slack on the mandated uniform.

This man looked like he knew how to groom himself, though it seemed like he might not have had the time to do so in the past couple of days. For him though, this did not detract from his looks. In fact, it only made him easier to relate to. It made him seem more human. I had a feeling that if he kept up with daily maintenance, he would be even more unbearably gorgeous.

I could have stared and postulated on him for the rest of the night, had his eyes not fluttered open and met mine, effectively ending my thoughts and sending me into a panic as to what to do.


End file.
